


Reverse-Flash Task Force

by melinie17



Category: The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Flash Rogues Big Bang, M/M, friendship fic, roguesbang 2014, useless19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melinie17/pseuds/melinie17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reverse-Flash Task Forces have to come from somewhere.<br/>(Written by Useless19 of livejournal and uploaded here per the author's request. A submission for Flash Rogues Big Bang 2014, originally hosted in Livejournal.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverse-Flash Task Force

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT** The author of this fic is Useless19 (http://useless19.livejournal.com/), not melinie17. I simply did the artwork (http://melinie17.livejournal.com/714.html) and posted the complete work here with the author's permission, since Useless19 does not have an ao3 account.
> 
> AN: So, I'm not sure how many people actually know who the Renegades are. They're from Professor Zoom's (Eobard Thawne's) time, created to stop him, though they're pretty new at all this when we see them (just before the reboot). I would've liked to see more with them in, but I doubt we're going to get that any time soon, given who the new Reverse-Flash is.  
> Anyway, I decided to try and explore their characters a little. What kind of people does it take to make a Reverse-Flash Task Force? Are we talking Justice League or Suicide Squad? What are they like out of uniform? I've done my best to avoid other people's views of the Renegades, so as to keep mine as solid and consistent as possible.  
> Well, anyway, here's my interpretation of one possibility.  
> Extra AN: We don't get given the names of the Renegades in the Dastardly Death of the Rogues arc, so obviously I've had to make up my own for them. I'm afraid that they're not very 25th century (I couldn't come up with names like Eobard or Simogyn), but as an aid to remember which Rogue they're representing I've tried to keep to similar names.

The sirens were echoing behind Simon as he sprinted forward. They were too slow.  _He was going to get away!_

  
Simon hoped it wasn't just his wishful thinking that the gap between him and the suspect was getting smaller. His feet pounded the cracked tarmac and his hand dropped to where his gun hung on his belt...

  
Where his gun  _should_  have been hanging on his belt.

  
Not for the first time since becoming a police officer did Simon wonder how he'd gotten through the exams without being disqualified for absentmindedness.

  
“Slaytor! Get back here!” Lance snarled over the communicator.

  
“Closing in,” Simon panted, not wasting any more breath on words.

  
“Wait for backup!” Lance snapped back. There was a  _whir_  over the communicator as Lance's car took a sharp corner too quickly, “How're you going to detain them when you've left your gun here?”

  
Simon didn't bother replying, Lance knew what he was like and would catch up in time to help take in the suspect, but not if Simon let him get away now.

  
Continuing the chase down another alley, over several fences, and past a rather startled cat, Simon kept an eye out for something –  _anything_  – that could be used to capture the fleeing man.

  
He damn near tripped over the blasted thing, but Simon found what he was looking for.

  
The man went down and Simon decided, as he waited for Lance and the sirens to catch up, that sometimes the simplest things were often the best.

  
\--------------------

  
Simon did what he could to keep a blank expression as Commissioner Frambul went through the same rant he always did when Simon was in his office.

  
“... Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Frambul finished, as he usually did.

  
“I apprehended the suspect,” Simon said, as  _he_  usually did.

  
“You had backup not five minutes away,” Frambul snapped, “The suspect wasn't going to escape. You had no right or  _need_  to use unauthorised equipment to bring him down, Slaytor.”

  
“It wasn't –” Simon started.

  
“No,” Frambul interrupted, “No excuses. You're on suspension. Again. You know the drill.”

  
“Yes, sir,” Simon sighed.

  
Frambul waved him out and Simon left the office. Lance was waiting for him in the hall. Simon didn't say anything, just walking back toward their desks. Lance trailed behind him.

  
“Let me guess,” Lance said, “Suspension.”

  
“For a net. For a stupid  _net_ ,” Simon sighed, “Well at least I'm giving the guys in R&D a laugh.”

  
“Fantastic,” Lance said dryly.

  
Simon reached his desk and collapsed into his chair. He'd have an hour to gather his personal belongings and get out of the station or he'd be in more trouble.

  
“Look,” Lance said, standing on the other side of Simon's desk. Simon could see the speech coming. “You  _know_  there's only so many times they're going to suspend you before they kick you off the force entirely. Good record with catching suspects or not.”

  
“Then what do you suggest I do?” Simon said, “Let them get away?”

  
“ _Don't_  use external equipment until it's been properly tested and regulated,” Lance said.

  
“That takes bloody ages,” Simon said.

  
“Better a long wait than the criminals you  _do_  catch getting off on a technicality because you used unregistered equipment,” Lance pointed out.

  
Simon just sighed again and started going through his drawers for anything that might be his. Lance walked around the desk and placed a hand on Simon's shoulder.

  
“Dammit, Simon, I don't want to see you kicked off the force,” Lance said, “Take this week as a vacation and unwind.”

  
“I'll try,” Simon promised.

  
Lance moved back over to his own desk. “I swear, if they partner me up Distalf again they won't be finding his body,” he said, with a pointed look at Simon, “This is why you can't get fired. Who else am I going to stand as a partner?”

  
“Drinks as usual on Friday?” Simon asked as he shoved the last of his belongings into his bag.

  
“Of course,” Lance said, “Don't get into too much trouble while I'm stuck in here doing paperwork.”

  
\--------------------

  
“I've got qualifications from –”

  
“That's still no good if we don't have an opening,” the wizened old professor said, peering over the top of a holographic display at Randall.

  
“I've also got a letter of recommendation from Professor Zamarano,” Randall said quickly, juggling the papers in his arms to produce the specific sheet.

  
“Again, we're not interested in someone of your particular talents,” the professor said, shaking his head.

  
“Please,” Randall said, “I've been studying the Flash for years, this would be my dream job. Even if it's not being the resident expert on the Flash, please let me have a job here. I don't care if it's mopping toilets or –”

  
“Mr Dennison,” the professor interrupted sternly, “While I appreciate your enthusiasm in the study of speedsters, we simply cannot employ someone without the correct opening. Thank you for your application, we will keep your record on file. Good day.”

  
With that, the old professor focussed on the screen in front of him and completely tuned out Randall's last attempts at talking. Randall's shoulders slumped. He made sure he had all his papers and left the office.

  
Wandering through the Flash museum, Randall couldn't help glaring at the statues of the various scarlet speedsters they'd had over the centuries since Jay Garrick had first put on a shiny hat.

  
“Easy for you,” Randall muttered, “Put on a mask and save people. Do really well at your regular jobs too. Some of us don't have that many hours in a day.”

  
It was probably a good idea to get out of the museum before his bitterness got too much, so Randall went out into the sunshine and tried to forget the sting of being rejected. He'd go the library, that being one of his favourite places to just sit and be.

  
Randall just hoped something would come up soon; he was getting low on funds.

  
\--------------------

  
Marten looked up when Jim started laughing. Jim was holding up a torn net and grinning at Marten from the other side.

  
“A net?” Marten asked, “That's a bit... primitive, isn't it?”

  
“Priority one. Special orders from Commissioner Frambul,” Jim said, dangling the report that came with it in Marten's face.

  
Marten sighed and left his much more interesting analysis of meteorological phenomenon to run through the standard procedure with Jim.

  
\--------------------

  
“Mr Simon Evan Slaytor?”

  
Simon tensed. No good had ever come of his full name being used like that. He turned to find a hologram standing next to him, the small buzzing drone that projected it hovering close by. The next thing Simon noticed was the insignia sewn into the hologram's robes and painted on the drone.

  
Precinct One.

  
Despite having done no wrong, Simon still had to clamp down on the urge to run for it. He balled his fists before it became obvious that his hands were shaking from the burst of adrenalin that his flight instinct had just triggered.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Follow,” the hologram ordered. The drone buzzed off, taking the projection with it. Simon trudged along after, hating the way that the people he passed purposefully avoided looking anywhere near the hologram or Simon himself.

  
The main building Precinct One occupied – at least the main one that the public knew about – was uptown in Central City. Simon was lead elsewhere to another building in the middle of the Missouri river which separated the twin cities of Keystone and Central. A narrow bridge joined the island to the mainland on either side.

  
Simon wondered if it would be quicker and less painful to throw himself in the river now. However he was on the other side of the bridge before he knew it, keeping up with the drone’s steady clip.

  
The only imposing thing that Simon found with this building was its location. Otherwise it was made of whitewashed smooth stone with tinted windows places at regular intervals. Simon felt rather disillusioned.

  
Even the inside was clinically sterile chrome and glass. Simon was left in an uncomfortable chair to stare at the only poster in the windowless room. It was telling employees how to wash their hands correctly and Simon started to wonder if he was dreaming.

  
“We will see you now,” said a voice that Simon couldn’t find the location of.

  
One of the doors opened and Simon went through. He appeared in a room full of flickering images. Yellow blurs, red blurs, bright colours, and dark shadows took up every available piece of wall.

  
“We have been watching you, Mr Simon Evan Slaytor,” said the same disembodied voice, “And we have a task for you.”

  
“Who’s ‘we’?” Simon asked, “I usually get to see my boss’ face.”

  
“We are Precinct One,” said the voice, “And I am before you.”

  
As Simon turned again, taking in more of the images, he realised there was a hooded and robed figure standing in the room with him. Simon had a feeling that asking to see its face would be a bad move.

  
“What kind of task?” Simon asked.

  
The robed figure waved its hand. An image of a man in yellow appeared, he had a cruel look on his face and Simon’s police-trained instincts put him as a criminal, even before he recognised the insignia on his chest.

  
“You want me to arrest the Reverse-Flash?” Simon asked, incredulous.

  
“What knowledge do you have of this individual?” the robed figure asked.

  
“What I learnt in school,” Simon said, “We had a trip to the Flash museum for history once. That’s about it.”

  
“Eobard Thawne, known as Professor Zoom and the Reverse-Flash, is alive again. We have proof that he was resurrected in the 21st Century and will likely return to our current time and wreak the havoc he unleashed before.”

  
“So what do you want me to do about it?” Simon asked, “I’m on suspension at the moment.”

  
“We do not believe that the regular police force will be able to combat a meta-threat like Eobard Thawne,” Precinct One said, “I have been watching you and I have... you might like to call it a job offer.”

  
\--------------------

  
“Are you crazy?” Lance asked, staring at Simon with a very familiar exasperated look, “Precinct One? Do you know how dangerous they are?”

  
“It's an opportunity,” Simon argued, “One I'm not going to get here.”

  
“But  _Precinct One_?” Lance said, pressing the heel of his hand into his brow.

  
Simon just leant against the wall and waited for Lance to calm down. Eventually Lance lifted his head up and gave Simon a serious look.

  
“So what's it all about?” Lance asked, sounding tired despite the early hour.

  
“A Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon replied, “One that can deal with Professor Zoom now we know he's alive again in the past.”

  
“... time-travel was never my area of expertise,” Lance said, “I'm never going to be able to understand what you've been up to. If you can tell me, that is. Is it classified? Are you supposed to be even telling me about  _this_?”

  
“Well, I was thinking...” Simon began.

  
“This is going to end badly for me, isn't it?” Lance sighed.

  
Simon rolled his eyes and continued. “They've put me in charge of the team. However, there isn't a team yet. My first job is to make one.”

  
Lance's eyebrows rose. “You want...  _me_  on this team?”

  
“Who else am I going to give all the paperwork to?” Simon said.

  
“Wait a minute, they put  _you_  in charge of the team?” Lance said, “You can barely take care of yourself.”

  
“I'll learn,” Simon said with an easy shrug.

  
Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. “How big's this team going to be?” he asked.

  
“I was thinking six, including us,” Simon said, “Think you can handle getting two of the remaining four?”

  
“I know a few places that I could ask around in,” Lance said slowly, frowning at Simon's pleading look, “ _Fine_ , I'm in. When's the first day?”

  
“This coming Monday,” Simon replied, “Room 2.35 in Precinct One's main building uptown. See you then.”

  
“And Slaytor,” Lance called as Simon headed out, “You can do your own damn paperwork.”

  
\--------------------

  
They never told you how dull it could be, Mike reflected, trying not fidget as prospective employers looked over the line-up. He focused on staying as still as possible, for some reason that made people believe you'd be a good security guard. Snippets of discussion reached Mike's ears.

  
“...the Tellalia 3005...”

  
“...auto-recognition...outperforms...”

  
And that was always the problem with being a fully human security guard, Mike thought dismally, you always had to compete with robots that were getting better and better.

  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” called Mike's boss, a dark woman in a severe red dress known only as Thengold, “Do I hear some murmurs about my elite being worse than a bunch of dustbins? Here at TSE, we strive to produce the  _best_  in security.”

  
“And how can you ignore the consistent improvement in brands like Tellalia or Faststream Industries?” a man in the group pointed out. He had an ugly thin moustache and Mike had a feeling that he worked for one of the companies he'd just mentioned. “How can you ignore the benchmark tests that show that robotic reflexes and AI threat-awareness will always out-perform your basic humanoid, no matter how well-trained?”

  
“Because my agents have something that no machine will ever be able to duplicate,” Thengold replied, “ _Humanity._  They will make the  _human_  decision in any given circumstance. Do you want your children entrusted to a mechanical thing that once was part of a military weapon? Part of a nuclear reactor? There is a reason our police-force is still ninety-percent human, with the other ten-percent belonging to their vehicles and weapons.”

  
“So you would choose sentimentality over accuracy?” the man sniffed imperiously.

  
“I would choose what made me feel safe,” Thengold shot back, “And machines as watchdogs keep me awake at night.”

  
The man looked like he might persist, but Thengold stared him down and he appeared to remember that he was currently standing on her turf.

  
That was the most exciting thing that happened during that group of employers. And the next. Some of Mike's co-workers got given contracts, but only a few. As much as Thengold might like to protest it, they were losing out against AI driven security drones since a breakthrough in human-recognition by Faststream five years ago. There were less and less prospective employers and the number of employees was dwindling by the month now.

  
Mike had only obtained one contract this year so far, if he didn't get another soon he was likely to be made redundant.

  
The last group shuffled off and Mike was finally able to relax properly, only having had short breaks that could be cut even shorter at a second's notice. He rolled his shoulders back and let out a sigh as he ambled toward the lockers where their valuables were kept during the presentations.

  
There was a vaguely familiar man standing at the entrance to the display hall when Mike came back through. Thengold had noticed him and some of Mike's colleagues had already edged closer in order to see what would happen. It beat an empty flat, so Mike decided to hang around. Thengold was always entertaining.

  
“We don't have any openings,” she said sharply, “And I'd prefer potential clients to use our business hours when selecting our employees.”

  
The man was taken aback for a moment, but recovered admirably and held up a badge to Thengold. As he did so Mike suddenly recognised him.

  
“Lance Allen, Precinct One,” said Captain Allen – though Mike supposed that wasn't the case if he wasn't still with the force, “I'm here to see if anyone within the company's employ would like the chance to work for Precinct One.”

  
Mike hissed in sympathy as Thengold's expression hardened.

  
“Mr Allen,” Thengold said icily, “I don't know where you got the idea that my employees were for something other than security, but it's not welcome here. You may engage their services through TSE, we offer extremely reasonably rates for large businesses such as Precinct One.”

  
Allen's eyes narrowed. “Ms...”

  
“Thengold.”

  
“Ms Thengold, this isn't about rates,” Allen said sharply, “I've worked with several similar companies before and I know that it's becoming a rare thing to have human guards nowadays.”

  
“And you're offering to take unnecessary employees off my hands?” Thengold snorted.

  
“I know you've already made redundancies.”

  
“And did they take you up on your offer?” Thengold asked pointedly.

  
Allen's jaw tensed. “No, they haven't,” he gritted out.

  
“Then it must be an excellent job offer,” Thengold said, with a vicious smile like a shark, “You may make your offer to my employees, who are free to accept if they don't already have a contract.”

  
Stiffly and with one final glare at Thengold, Allen faced the room at large. Mike already knew that he wouldn't get anywhere, Thengold held all the power here.

  
“I'm looking for a few individuals to become part of a Task Force for Precinct One,” Allen said, “You will be working with the law to put away meta-threats and criminals beyond the regular force's capabilities.”

  
Mike wasn't the only one who was surprised at the abrupt description. Despite himself, Mike was interested though, especially since he wasn't likely to last long in TSE.

  
Nobody moved to answer. Allen gave a sharp nod, quietly thanked Thengold for her time and left.

  
Mike started to leave himself, but suddenly a grip like an iron vice clamped onto his arm and Thengold pulled him to one side.

  
“You should go after him and take that offer, Mr Rayner,” she said.

  
Mike wondered when his boss would stop surprising him.

  
“It's sensible,” Thengold continued, “You haven't had a contract here for four months and we hardly want somewhere like Faststream gaining a foothold in Precinct One when TSE has an opportunity such as this.”

  
“I didn't think you wanted us to take it,” Mike said cautiously.

  
“Precinct One's an excellent chance to move up in the world for anyone, I did what I did so I would still have employees left and they didn't all fight to become one of those 'few individuals',” Thengold said, “And you want to take that job, I saw it.”

  
“I...” Mike didn't know what to say, “I've enjoyed working for TSE.”

  
“I know you have,” Thengold said, “Now go enjoy working for Precinct One.”

  
\--------------------

  
Simon walked into the research and development lab and, in a well-practised move, grabbed the fire extinguisher by the door. The fire wasn't a big one, but it was flickering in all the colours of the rainbow. Simon pointed the extinguisher at it then was suddenly tackled out of the way, making his blast of foam go wild.

  
“It's  _meant_  to be on fire,” the man who had tackled Simon said, getting up and brushing off his lab coat.

  
“It's not  _usually_ ,” Simon said, “You should put up a sign or something, Jim.”

  
Jim gave a cocky grin and helped Simon to his feet. The fire burned its merry colours on the work-space, but Simon noticed that it wasn't spreading further.

  
Jim Jefferys was one of Research and Development's worst nightmares as well as its best technician. He was a smidge taller than Simon and had dirty-blond hair that sat far more attractively than Simon's ever did on the rare occasions it wasn't soot-streaked or electrocuted to insanity. He was also regularly missing his eyebrows.

  
“So what brings you down to our lair?” Jim asked, ignoring the fact that R&D got one of the highest floors in the building to play on, “Another net?”

  
Simon wasn't entirely surprised that Jim had correctly linked last week's fiasco to him; it wasn't the first time he'd looked in on Research and Development to try and wangle his 'illegal' equipment back.

  
“Job offer,” Simon replied, “Something you might be interested in.”

  
“When I've got everything I want here?” Jim said, gesturing at the lab and fire, “It's going to have to be pretty good for me to consider it, you know.”

  
“Precinct One,” Simon said.

  
Jim paused, then picked up the fire extinguisher and put out the multi-coloured flames. When he turned back to Simon his intrigue was clear.

  
“Go on,” Jim said.

  
“They're putting together a Reverse-Flash Task Force,” Simon said.

  
“You do know how to tempt a guy,” Jim said, tapping his fingers on the work-surface.

  
“Two guys, hopefully,” Simon said, “I'd like you and someone else from here to be part of the team.”

  
“If I say 'yes' can I pick the other member?” Jim asked.

  
Simon shrugged. “Fine by me.”

  
“Great,” Jim said, with a wide grin. He turned his head and called, “Hey! Marten!”

  
One of the other lab technicians peeled away from the main group at Jim's shout and made his way over. Unlike Jim, this guy was wearing his lab coat like a lab coat and had his brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He gave Simon a nod, though his whole posture was wary. Simon supposed that working with Jim would do that to you.

  
“Pack your desk, Marten,” Jim said, “We've got a new job.”

  
“What?” Marten took a step back, as though Jim's craziness was contagious, “I  _like_  my job here, thank you very much.”

  
“Well this is even better,” Jim said, “Precinct One.”

  
Marten took his protective goggles off purely to pinch the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “You know you're not supposed to drink on the job, Jim.”

  
“He's telling the truth,” Simon said. He held his hand out toward Marten, “Simon Slaytor, CCPD. Well, I was, now I'm working for Precinct One in a Reverse-Flash Task Force.”

  
“He's hiring,” Jim said, “And I've accepted for us.”

  
“Jim,” Marten said with a well-practised sigh, “As much as you like to try and take control of my life, it's  _my_  decision.” He looked at Simon, a sliver of interest visible, “Have you got any more information?”

  
\--------------------

  
“Why couldn't someone else have agreed?” Lance sighed, “Simon'll never let me live it down if he recruits more people than me.”

  
“You've not got anywhere else in mind?” Michael asked.

  
“No,” Lance said, “That's most of the major security firms down. Any worse and I doubt they'll pass the criminal ancestors background check.”

  
“You can't expect everyone to be as up for working for Precinct One as you are,” Michael pointed out.

  
“As Simon is,” Lance corrected, “But think of the difference they could make. How much better a Reverse-Flash Task Force could make the city.”

  
“Excuse me. Did I hear you correctly?” a shortish blond man interrupted, “There's such a thing as a Reverse-Flash Task Force?”

  
“Maybe,” Lance said, automatically on his guard around someone he didn't know, “Why?”

  
“Randall Dennison,” the man said, holding out his hand, “I'm an expert in History, Time-travel, and the Flash. I'm looking for a job that could utilise these skills, is there an opening?”

  
“You know what the words 'Task Force' mean, right?” Lance asked, “You're not just going to be sitting down with some screens and books, you're going to be out in the field against the Reverse-Flash and any other threats Precinct One wants us to face.”

  
“I'd be willing to train,” Randall said quickly.

  
Randall had the pallor of a man who didn't see sunlight very often, but he didn't look completely out of shape. Not much – if any – combat training from what Lance could tell from his hands and stance. Still, a historian to keep their records straight would be useful.

  
“Precinct One, room 2.35, Monday at nine,” Lance said after a few seconds thought, “Be on time.”

  
“Thank you,” Randall's face lit up and he shook Lance's hand, then Michael's too, “Really, thank you for this opportunity. I won't let you down.”

  
\--------------------

  
Simon looked over the recruits with a friendly smile. First thing Monday morning was never pleasant, but these four were surprisingly wide-awake. Especially when compared to Lance, who was currently inhaling his coffee while waiting for Simon to start.

  
“So, this is all of us,” Simon said, “The operation might grow in time, but I think it's best we start small. I'm Simon Slaytor and I was a cop before this. If everyone else could go around and introduce themselves and their previous jobs, that'd be helpful. Lance?”

  
“Lance Allen. CCPD,” Lance said abruptly, “Next?”

  
There was a pause, which Jim broke.

  
“I'm James Jefferys, R&D,” he said, “You can call me Jim.”

  
“Marten Moore,” Marten said when Jim elbowed him, “I'm in research and development too.”

  
“And he'll kill everyone who calls him Marty,” Jim offered, all smiles.

  
Marten elbowed Jim right back and turned his head to look at the man next in line.

  
“Michael Rayner, I was a security guard,” he said, “I guess you could call me Mike if that's too much of a mouthful.”

  
“Randall Dennison, historian specialising in the Flash,” the last man said without needing prompting.  
  


Simon nodded. “Alright, I can't promise to remember them, but it's a start. So,” Simon ran through a mental checklist of what he was supposed to ask, “Does everyone know why they're here and what we plan to do?”

  
“Aren't you supposed to be telling us what we're going to do?” Jim asked, giving voice to the confusion on the others' faces.

  
“Right, right,” Simon said, he heard Lance sigh, “We're going to create a Reverse-Flash Task Force. Simply put, we can't wait around for a Flash to finally decide to time-travel while the Reverse-Flash is wreaking our city. We're going to be what stands between the regular police force and meta-threats like the Reverse-Flash.”

  
“And how are we going to do that?” Mike asked, but it was curious, not scornful.

  
“There have been a lot of people trying to stop speedsters in the last five centuries,” Randall said, “Very few have ever succeeded.”

  
“We're going to start with the technology that's most easily accessible,” Simon said, “And the ones that work best as a team.”

  
“You're going to use the Rogues,” Randall said, comprehension dawning on his face.

  
“Yup,” Simon said, “I've got...” he looked around, but the nearby tables were empty, “I had some information on them, but I can't remember where it's gone.”

  
Lance rolled his eyes and pulled a pile of folders out of a drawer and handed them to Simon. “You  _did_  read over this, right?” Lance asked in an undertone.

  
“Um...” Simon gave a bright smile in hopes of keeping Lance from shouting at him.

  
“You,” Lance said, shoving a folder into Simon's hands, “Are an idiot. Looks like I'm explaining things then.”

  
“If you didn't mind,” Simon said.

  
“These folders,” Lance said, addressing the rest of the group and handing out the rest of the folders as he did, “Contain information on the Rogues, their weapons, and which ones we have available to us now and which will only be released on a provisional basis when we prove our proficiency at the job. They also contain your contract, which must be signed by the end of today. It's a little old-fashioned, but we're keeping paper records only for the moment.”

  
“Less chance of being hacked?” Mike clarified.

  
“Correct,” Lance said, “Until further notice, we're not to give anyone else information about the Task Force. We'd prefer to keep the element of surprise until it is no longer available.”

  
“So, now that’s the boring stuff out of the way,” Simon said, before Lance could starting running over even more tedious legal information, “Who wants to try out some weapons?”

  
There was a cheer from Jim and a glare from Lance, but he didn’t raise any objections while Simon led the lot of them to the weapons vault.

  
\--------------------

  
As much as Marten was trying to hold a grudge against Jim for pushing him into this job, he could barely hold back a moan of joy as Simon ushered them into the weapons storage room. Blueprints were laid over solid workbenches and stacked in corners in rolled up bundles. Zero-gravity containers held a number of weapons in varying stages of design and repair.

  
Jim laughed and was off, running between the tables with the giddy glee of a child on their birthday morning. Marten only managed to hold himself in check long enough for Simon’s friend to wave the rest of them forward.

  
There was so much to look at. Everything was brightly coloured and full of impossible notes –  _absolute zero, really?_  – having only been a glorified forensic scientist with only occasional bouts of new development, Marten realised that he was both completely out of his depth and exhilarated at the prospect of so many new things.

  
“Still doubting my decision now?” Jim asked smugly.

  
“There’s a still a chance it could all blow up,” Marten said, “Literally, given the substance this tank purportedly held.”

  
“You’re still smiling,” Jim said, with his own grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.”

  
Jim bounced off to look at another bit of equipment before Marten could reply. Marten’s head was spinning –  _flames hot enough to harm a speedster?_  – and he took a moment to look over his new team.

  
Jim was talking with Simon animatedly. Simon was pointing at a set of blueprints and one of the contained pistols. The historian was making good use of the information packs they’d been given and was looking at each weapon in turn, muttering to himself as he cross-referenced the weapons and the criminals who wielded them.

  
The other two men were talking too, Simon’s cop friend and the security guard. Marten would learn their names eventually. They appeared to be discussing the merits of straightforward firearms versus specialised weapons.

  
Marten realised that this was his life now. The job that had always been promised, but had never appeared. The career he would work himself to the bone for because he loved it that much.

  
“Have you found what weapon you want yet?”

  
Marten jumped and found Simon’s friend had wandered over while he’d been lost in his head. The man was tall, with short blond hair and intense blue eyes. Marten’s stomach gave a lurch, but he ignored it.

  
“Not yet. There’s so much to choose from,” he replied, then felt it would only get more awkward if he had to avoid using the man’s name, “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names. You’re...”

  
“It’s Lance. Lance Allen,” Lance said, with a hint of a smile, “And you’re Marten Moore. If I’m rightly remembering, Simon said you’re the one who wasn’t sure about all this.”

  
“That was before I saw this room,” Marten replied truthfully.

  
“As you’re going to be one of the two who does all the work on these things, speak up if you don’t think you’ll be able to keep any of them working,” Lance said, “There’s no point in us getting to grips with one weapon only to have it break and not be able to us it again.”

  
“Thank you,” Marten said. He felt he shouldn’t just leave it there, so added, “Have you decided which weapon you’re going to use yet?”

  
“I’m hoping to get one of the straightforward point and shoot ones,” Lance said, “I’ve been firing a gun for years, I know how to do that.”

  
It made sense to Marten, Simon had also chosen a pistol and had come from the same line of work. There were several pistols amongst the weapons, so it wouldn’t be like Lance would have trouble finding one.

  
A thin piece of detailed metal caught Marten’s eye and he went over to have a closer look. Even before he read the notice attached to the container or looked up the weapon in his folder of Rogues, Marten knew what it was.

  
“‘ _The weather wand’,”_  Lance read aloud.

  
“It's an incredibly sophisticated piece of technology. For the time period anyway,” Marten said, examining the weather wand as close as he dared without better equipment, “Even now I'd be hard pressed to find some capable of creating something like this. Meteorology is rarely studied by humans these days.”

  
“Can you get it working?” Lance asked.

  
“I don't know,” Marten replied frankly, “I don't have the Jackham genes. None of us do. I'm going to have to take a better look.”

  
“Don't spend too long with it,” Lance said, “If it doesn't work it doesn't work.”

  
The wand hummed, glowed, and shot off a stray spark. When Marten didn't move it further it quieted down again.

  
“Well,  _something's_  still working in there,” Marten said, wishing he was back in his lab with the right equipment.

  
It took the rest of the day, but eventually they all found something they would be happy using. Marten got the weather wand after all, though only with a promise that if he couldn’t get any of it working in a week he’d pick something else. Jim couldn’t decide on just one gimmick and went for a bit of everything, explaining that he was basing himself off the Trickster.

  
Lance got his pistol, one of the ones that could produce absolute zero. So did Simon, though his had power over reflections instead of ice. Michael decided on the flamethrower and Randall went for a prototype suit that was attempting to replicate the Top’s meta-powers.

  
\--------------------

  
Simon headed into work a couple of Thursdays later. He was beginning to get the hang of the mirror gimmicks and had completed several test-runs into the mirror-dimension only yesterday. Today he was hoping to have a successful run with someone else in tow.

  
His mail slot was oddly full when he checked it. Since working here, the only items Simon had gotten so far were the initial briefing from Precinct One and a couple of gag cards from Jim (bearing lines like ' _congratulations on getting fired_ ').

  
By the insignia on the thick envelope, it looked like another missive from Precinct One. Maybe it had information about their equipment and what Precinct One was going to expect of them – expect of them more that just Lance's training drills, which were something Simon had been hoping to get away from now they weren't working with the police force, but no such luck.

  
It wasn't about their training or equipment. Simon nearly broke his neck tripping up the stairs in his hurry to get to room 2.35.

  
Lance was already there, talking to Jim and Randall. There wasn't any sign of Marten or Mike yet, but Simon was on time, for once, and there was never a full Task Force before nine o'clock.

  
Lance recognised Simon's excitement for what it was and looking annoyingly frowny about it. Simon had expected that and thus turned to give Jim and Randall the news first. It would be easier to persuade Lance if Simon had other people behind him.

  
“We've got a mission,” Simon said enthusiastically.

  
Jim's face lit up and Randall looked intrigued. Lance rolled his eyes at Simon, but didn't interrupt; likely only because the others were there, which is what Simon had been banking on.

  
“Thawne?” Randall asked, “The Reverse-Flash?”

  
“No,” Simon replied, “There's a disturbance down the Links.  _Meta-human_  disturbance.”

  
Randall lost a bit of his eagerness, but still looked interested. Thank goodness. Jim was already moving toward his workbench for supplies.

  
“They sent it on paper?” Lance asked, which wasn't what Simon had been expecting. “Innocent people possibly getting hurt, structural damage, and they didn't notify us more quickly?”

  
“They said they were keeping records quiet,” Randall said, but he didn't sound too enthused by the idea, “We  _are_  meant to not exist at the moment.”

  
“Take it up with Precinct One later,” Simon said, holding up the missive, “We've got a job to do.”

  
Lance held out his hand. “I'll read it over. Go and get ready,” he ordered.

  
“Come on, Randall,” Simon said, dragging him over to Jim and leaving Lance to read the mission briefing.

  
“Doesn't it bother you that he doesn't treat you like you're his superior?” Randall asked when they were out of Lance's earshot.

  
“Nope,” Simon said cheerfully, “If you hadn't noticed, it's all pretty informal here. Lance's always been better at understanding the formal talk they use on those things. Besides he's saved my arse enough times to treat me however he wants.”

  
Randall smiled at that. Jim emerged from under his workbench and placed an armful of material on the surface. Green and orange and yellow and blue. Simon picked up his outfit and grabbed the mirror-pistol from Marten's bench. Their first job.

  
This would be fun.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Mike arrived at his work building at the same time as Marten. They chatted on the way up to the lab room. It was quite a nice day out and, surprisingly, Marten agreed that it would be nice to spend some time outdoors.

  
However, their plans for having a team lunch out were put on hold the second they walked into the hectic rush of the lab.

  
“We've got a mission!” Simon practically sang as he ran by them, “Get your kit on!”

  
Mike and Marten exchanged a bemused glance before heading to fetch their equipment. Jim was waiting for them, their outfits and weapons in his arms, and looking just as excited as Simon had been.

  
Once everyone was suited up, Simon stood before them, Lance slightly off to one side. Mike had noticed this before; Simon would put on a show of handling his responsibility as leader then step back and let Lance take over. Sure enough, the moment Simon finished his short speech – to the effect of 'we have a mission' – he passed off the actual mission briefing to Lance.

  
“We have a meta-human situation downtown,” Lance said, handing out maps to everyone, “Luckily it's not an urgent problem, but it  _is_  spreading.” Lance took a while handing Marten his map and, for his part, Marten was giving Lance his complete undivided attention.

  
Huh, how long had  _that_  been going on?

  
“As only two of us have completed the required number of hours training time for the time-platforms, we’ll be making our way there by standard vehicles,” Lance continued, “Slaytor, Jefferys, you can use the platforms to scout ahead if you wish, but do not engage the enemy until the entire Task Force has arrived at the scene.”

  
“On it,” Simon said, already moving away and taking Jim with him.

  
“Everyone got their weapons? Let’s go.” Lance commanded.

  
The anticipation Mike felt only grew as they got closer and closer to the Links. When they were there it was clear where the disturbance was happening.

  
The thing was spreading inch by inch over the collection of grassy triangles that made up the park. It put Mike in mind of a lava-flow he'd once seen while travelling. The big difference to any kind of volcano was the fact that the thing was a single blob of greasy black, rather than a continuous stream of molten red.

  
It also seemed intelligent, globbing around obstructions or attacking them single-mindedly until they burst into flame or melted. The heat was incredible, even at a distance.

  
“Spread out and contain it,” Lance ordered, “Keeping it in here and civilians out is priority. Only engage when we're all in position. That thing could do a lot of damage around buildings.”

  
“Like it's done over there?” Jim pointed down a street which had been warped and burnt by the thing creeping through it.

  
Mike could see Lance's jaw tense and heard him mutter something unsavoury about Precinct One under his breath.

  
“Spread out,” Lance repeated.

  
“What the hell is it?” Marten asked over their headsets once they were making their way to hopefully strategic points.

  
“I'm... I'm not sure if it's relevant...” Randall said quietly.

  
“Spit it out,” Lance ordered, “Anything that might help is useful.”

  
“Well, there was an enemy of the Flash,” Randall said, gaining confidence as he dug further into his memory, “Tarpit. I... I can't remember his real name, but he could astrally project himself and got stuck in a pile of flaming tar.”

  
“Do you think this is the same guy?” Jim asked.

  
“It's been over four hundred years...” Randall said doubtfully.

  
“Until proven otherwise, assume that's the case,” Lance said, “Know his weaknesses, Dennison?”

  
“Um... He's a flaming tar pile,” Randall said, “So... cold? I guess?”

  
“Anything that hot has to be close to flashpoint,” Jim pointed out, “Depending on how quickly it regenerates, you could probably burn it off. It'd leave a stain, but it wouldn't be mobile anymore.”

  
“Alright, Moore, see how cold you can get it, I'm going in,” Lance ordered, “Rayner, Jefferys, you keep it from spreading further. Use whatever firepower you can. Slaytor, Dennison, you're on cleanup, keep what structure you can of nearby buildings – any civilians you get them  _out_.”

  
“On my way,” Simon said.

  
Mike was extremely glad of the thick insulation on his suit. The icy wind was biting and more than once the headsets picked up chattering teeth from one of the group who had bare skin visible. Marten stood in the middle of it, the brightly glowing wand the only thing distinguishing his green suit from the rest of the park. He was responding tersely whenever Jim tried to ask how he was holding up.

  
Mike pushed forward. The heatpack on his back was a comfort.

  
The blobby tar pile gave itself a shake and seemed to grow taller as it pulled itself together and reared up away from where Lance had started blasting ice at it.

  
Flaming tar splattered near Mike. He unleashed his flamethrower and within seconds there wasn't anything more than a smear of oily soot on the path. Easy.

  
Over the comms, Lance and Simon were keeping up a steady stream of updates on the situation. Mike would have found it annoying if it hadn't stopped him from walking straight into a hidden piece of tar twice already.

  
“It's not going away,” Simon called, “We can't keep it contained forever, we need a plan.”

  
Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Lance.

  
“I could try burning it,” Mike suggested, “It's been working so far.”

  
“Marten'll have to drop the cold weather,” Jim said, “And then things'll get  _hot_.”

  
“What's the damage likely to be?” Lance asked.

  
“ _COLD! I'LL KILL YOU!”_  roared a gurgling voice.

  
Lance only avoided the tidal wave of tar tearing into him because of Simon's quick thinking. A mirror-portal opened on the ice beneath Lance's feet and dropped him sideways out of the remains of a fountain by Mike.

  
“I'm going to wall it in,” Lance shouted over the comms, “Slaytor, keep it contained within the reflections. Moore, get that cold wind surrounding us, but leave us a warm centre – Rayner's going to heat things up.”

  
“What do you want me to do?” Jim asked.

  
“You and Dennison, get the hell back to HQ and find something to contain what's left,” Lance ordered.

  
“Yes, sir,” Jim said, grabbing Randall and flying off on the translucent time-platform.

  
The winds shifted and soon a snowstorm was spinning around the park and darkening the sky. Mike was seriously impressed.

  
“I don't know how long I can keep this up for,” Marten admitted shakily.

  
“As long as you can,” Lance said, “That's all we need. Slaytor, get ready with those reflections.”

  
 _BANG!_

  
Mike was lying on his back on the edge of the storm. There was a ringing in his ears and something telling him he had to move. Now.

  
Mike rolled to the side, a move made difficult by the tank on his back, just in time to avoid a flaming limb of tar slam down next to him. The tar creature had gotten bigger and Mike though he could make out what might be a face.

  
Ice walled up between them.

  
“ _You don't remember that you can't block me in with ice?”_  the gurgling voice laughed,  _“No one can hold me. You've gotten old, Cold!”_

  
“Randall's going to be pissed that he missed this,” Simon said, “That's a walking piece of history right there. Well, shuffling piece anyway.”

  
“Focus, Slaytor.”

  
“I'm focussed. You ready, Mike?” Simon said, “I'm going to open a portal on your right. It'll take you behind it.”

  
“Ready,” Mike said, giving his flamethrower a quick squeeze to ensure it was still working. A lick of flame singed the fountain rubble.

  
The mirror-portal appeared as Simon said it would. Mike was very glad they'd been put through a lot of practise drills as the vertigo caught him when he dove through. The world lurched right way up as Mike landed heavily.

  
He was behind the creature as far as he could tell. It was alternating between flicking huge chucks of ice and globs of flaming tar at Lance, who was shoring up a barrier of ice to protect himself.

  
With a twist of the flamethrower's nozzle, Mike set the blast to wide and let rip.

  
Tarpit roared and twisted around to swat at Mike again. He caught the glistening of a mirror-portal out of the corner of his eye and leapt for it. Mike found himself behind Tarpit again.

  
The fight continued, much the same. Lance kept up the walls of ice and Simon opened portal after portal for Mike to run through to keep out of Tarpit's reach.

  
Mike was running for another portal when his foot caught on a lump of ice and he tripped. He broke his fall easily, but it cost him. With a bellow of rage, Tarpit's arm came down and Mike was hit with a pile of flaming tar.

  
Mike's vision sparked and even with the insulation in his suit he was uncomfortably hot.

  
“ _You hurt me! I'll hurt you!”_

  
Mike squeezed the trigger of his flamethrower, raising the temperature further and separating Tarpit's arm from his body with a greasy smear.

  
“Container on the way,” Jim said, “We've got a big one and Randall swears it'll work.”

  
“Get Rayner out of there, Slaytor,” Lance ordered, “Moore, how are you holding up?”

  
The was a grunt from Marten, and though the snow was dying down, the winds were still howling as wildly as ever.

  
“I can't see him,” Simon shouted, “Mike!”

  
Tarpit was screaming and flailing about. Mike was still trapped under a layer of tar.

  
“Rayner! Status update!” Lance yelled, “Someone run distraction!”

  
“On it,” Jim said,  _“Bombs.”_

  
A handful of capsules dropped from the sky and exploded around Tarpit. Mike struggled to free himself, slipping his heatpack off his shoulders as he did so.

  
“I'm fine,” Mike managed to gasp out over the comms, “My ribs are bruised and something's cut my arm, but I'm fine.”

  
There was another round of explosions and Mike felt his arm burning. Ice and a shimmering metal container were catching the light of the flames and blinding Mike. His vision went black for a moment.

  
“Come on,” Randall was suddenly there, looking beyond terrified and doing something with his arms to keep the worst of the fumes and smoke away, “Move!”

  
Something went  _crack,_  the container dropped, the winds died, and Mike finally lost consciousness.

  
\--------------------

  
They waited in the same sterile, windowless room as Simon had before. It still had the sanitary poster up, though the corner of it had been torn by something. Simon felt his mind wander as time dragged on, and he thought up several ridiculous scenarios as to why the corner had been torn.

  
Lance was pacing, his face darkening with every step. Simon could see the build-up to a rant and wished he’d been allowed to help Mike to the hospital with the rest of the group. However, he was still the main point of contact between Precinct One and the Task Force and he knew enough about pissing off the higher-ups to know that Precinct One would take it badly if Lance was the only one who reported back.

  
Simon had a feeling that Precinct One would be happier with a written report, or even a call, but Lance had insisted on a face-to-face meeting and had forced Simon to lead him to the building in the middle of the Missouri river.

  
The door opened on its own. “We will see you now.”

  
Lance stormed through first and Simon trotted behind him quickly. The earlier he could cut off Lance’s rant, the better. Precinct One had already made a mistake by leaving him to stew for so long and Simon knew it would be ugly. He only hoped he could mitigate the damage.

  
“What is your request?” the same hooded figure said.

  
“We’re here to report on today’s mission,” Lance said stiffly.

  
“As stated in the documents informing you of the mission, I only require you to do your job when asked. A paper report can be filed for your own records, but Precinct One has no need of such memory aids. Do you have a request to make of me?”

  
Simon hadn’t known that the mission briefing had said that, but Lance likely had. That hadn’t stopped him ordering the entire Task Force to write a report on the fight before the end of the day tomorrow.

  
“We will be making reports, written for our own records and verbal for you,” Lance said, “A good commander sees to it.”

  
“I have no need of your reports,” Precinct One said, “I have everything I need to see what I need to in this building. If you do not require anything else, leave.”

  
“We’ll just –” Simon started.

  
“I  _require_  you to send our mission briefings instantly in a medium that gives us updates immediately,” Lance snapped, “I  _require_  you to understand that we are here to protect people to deal justice. I  _require_  you to allow us to do our bloody jobs!”

  
“I will consider what you have said. Please leave.”

  
Lance was thrown and Simon took the chance to leap in.

  
“Thanks for your time, we'll get on those reports,” Simon said, adding in an undertone, “C'mon, Lance. This isn't the time.”

  
Lance looked like he dearly wanted to argue some more, but whatever passed for common sense in his head finally prevailed.

  
“I'll see you in two days with our reports,” Lance said, with a glare.

  
And Lance had warned Simon about Precinct One being dangerous. Simon wasn't the one arguing with them!

  
\--------------------

  
“Go on,” Jim said, giving Marten a nudge, when they were all back in the lab sans Mike, “You've got your excuse: celebratory drinks.  _Go on_.”

  
“He won't want to,” Marten said.

  
“Simon said he likes  _The Bottle and Glass_. Go on, ask him out,” Jim pushed.

  
Marten sighed.

  
“At least  _ask_ , or I'll follow you home and annoy the crap out of you,” Jim threatened, “Or I'll just ask for you.”

  
“No!” Marten said quickly, “Don't. I'll ask.”

  
“Good boy,” Jim said patronisingly, patting Marten on the head.

  
Marten batted his hand away. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, before walking over to where Lance was putting the last of his equipment away.

  
“Excuse me, Lance?” Marten said.

  
“You need something?” Lance asked, shutting the drawer and turning to face Marten.

  
“I was thinking about going for a celebratory drink, since it's our first mission, and a successful one too, and it might be good to get to know the other members of the team a bit better and,” Marten realised he was babbling, “Well, the point is, do you want to get a drink?”

  
“I could probably use one,” Lance said, “Got anywhere in mind?”

  
“I overheard Simon saying something about  _The Bottle and Glass_ ,” Marten said, feeling ridiculously grateful for Jim's interference, “Do you know if it's any good?”

  
“It does a good house ale,” Lance replied, “I'll get my coat.”

  
“I'll finish putting away my stuff, shouldn't be two minutes,” Marten said.

  
He let out a breath when Lance left. So far so good.

  
However, when Marten got back to his lab bench it was completely clear, except for a note in Jim's handwriting.

  
 _I've got Randall out of the way and Simon shouldn't interfere. Good luck ;)_

  
Marten screwed the note up into a ball and chucked it into the incinerator. He was never talking to Jim about wanting romantic company ever again.

  
“You ready to go?” Lance asked from behind Marten, he was holding out Marten's coat for him, “I spoke to Simon but he's busy and it looks like Randall and Jim have buggered off already. Just you and me by the looks of things.”

  
...though Marten's own attempts at getting a date had never gone this well before.

  
“That's fine,” Marten said, pulling on his coat, “Shall we?”

  
\--------------------

  
If Marten had listened closely, he would have heard sniggering from behind his workbench, where Jim and holding a hand over his own mouth and Randall's. Jim was barely containing his laughter, while Randall looked somewhat indignant, but amused at the event. The equipment that had been on Marten's workbench was scattered on the floor around the two men.

  
Only when the door shut did Jim let Randall get back to his feet. Jim finally let himself laugh out loud. Randall rolled his eyes and started to clear up the equipment.

  
“Is it really that funny?” Randall asked.

  
“I didn't think Lance was that oblivious,” Jim said, “And I've never seen Marten that jumpy.”

  
“It seems like they could be quite a good match,” Randall observed.

  
“If one of them actually manages to tell the other,” Jim said, “We'll give them ten minutes to make sure one of them didn't forget something then we can leave.”

  
Simon picked them moment to return from the cloakroom with Jim and Randall's jackets in his arms.

  
“Did they go?” Simon asked.

  
“Yeah,” Jim replied, “Want to make a wager?”

  
“Tenner says they do,” Simon said, “And another to say that Marten's to one to initiate.”

  
“I say it'll be Lance,” Jim said.

  
“I can't believe you're betting on your team mates' romance,” Randall tutted. They both turned to look at him expectantly, “...oh alright,” Randall threw up his hands, “I'll take that they don't and the pinning gets worse from here on in.”

  
They shook hands and the bet was settled.

  
\--------------------

  
“Table at the back, get it,” Lance said, pointing at an empty table near the back of the room, “I'll get the drinks.”

  
Lance was off toward the bar before Marten had a chance to say anything. Shrugging to himself, Marten made a beeline for the table Lance had indicated and was relieved to find it still empty when he reached it. He put his coat over the back of one chair and sank into it.

  
Marten looked over  _the Bottle and Glass_  and found it to be a fairly nice looking old pub. The tables and chairs were mostly a dark stained wood – probably ash the analytical part of Marten's brain offered – while the floor and the bar itself, though made from the same wood by the looks of them, were well worn and much lighter.

  
The lights were low and the music barely audible below the hum of voices. Though there was still a bit much of an alcohol and body odour smell for his tastes, Marten found it much less offensive than he was used to in the much livelier bars Jim would try and drag him to on occasion.

  
“Here,” Lance set down a glass in front of Marten and settled himself into the other chair, “Good job being quick on the table.”

  
Marten took a tentative sip of his drink. It wasn't quite what he would have ordered for himself, but it was tastier than the drinks Jim usually shoved on him at the aforementioned bar trips.

  
“Sorry if it's not your thing,” Lance said upon seeing Marten's frown, “It's sort of a rule here. First time you visit you've got to try their house ale. After that you can have what you want.”

  
“It's nice enough,” Marten said, taking another larger gulp, “I wouldn't say no to trying it again sometime.”

  
That appeared to have been the right thing to say, Lance's mouth tilted up and he raised his own glass.

  
“To a successful mission?” he offered.

  
“To a successful mission,” Marten agreed, clinking his glass with Lance's.

  
There was a somewhat awkward silence. It was probably the worst possible time for Marten to realise that the more talkative of the group had been left behind and he had no idea how to start a conversation with Lance or what it would be about.

  
“So,” Lance said, “What do you think could've gone better in the mission?”

  
“I suppose we weren't all using the same terminology,” Marten said, hating that all they could talk about was work, “Jim and I can understand chemical and mechanical terms, but you and Simon have a selection of police codes that you were using. It was all understandable,” Marten added quickly, “But I wasn't expecting it.”

  
“Communication's one of the first things we should've learnt,” Lance agreed, “I'll get ahold of my old copy of police terminology and work something out.”

  
“We might need a bit more than police terms,” Marten said after another awkward moment of silence, “Given we're going to be dealing with situations that are specifically outside of police jurisdiction.”

  
“I'll work something out,” Lance repeated.

  
“Did the equipment work as expected?” Marten asked, wishing he was doing anything other than parroting his lab reports, but desperately trying to fight off another impending silence.

  
“Actually, I've been considering a few things,” Lance said, “My gun got knocked out of my hand during the fight and I didn't have a backup. But a backup could be just as easily knocked aside. Do you think there's a way to get... I don't know, my boots or coat to have an emergency ice-blast in them?”

  
Marten tapped his fingers on the table, ideas starting to form in his head. “How would it be activated?”

  
“Voice activation,” Lance replied, “In my experience I'm more likely to be able to talk than move if things are going badly. If I can't do either then things are going to hell anyway.”

  
Marten barely paid attention to the last half of what Lance was saying, scrabbling inside his pockets for a pen. He found one, but no paper. Marten grabbed a napkin and started scribbling down notes.

  
“Of course it shouldn't get you in the blast too,” Marten mumbled, “Voice activation keyed into – oh blast it all.” His pen had torn through the napkin. Marten just pulled up his sleeve and started making notes on his arm instead. As long as he remembered to copy them out before he showered it'd be fine. It wasn't the first time he'd done it.

  
Marten looked up when he remembered he had a companion. Lance was looking bemused.

  
“You looked like you were really getting into that,” Lance said, thankfully not sounding hurtful about it, “You really love R&D, don't you?”

  
“It's amazing,” was all Marten could say, “Being able to not only build, but also  _create_. To have the chance to think up something no one else has ever done... To be able to bring ideas to life...” Marten broke off and felt himself going red, “Sorry, I get a little carried away sometimes.”

  
Lance shook his head. “I don't get to see people that passionate about what they do very often, it's good to see in and of itself,” he said, “You look kinda fierce when you were really getting into it.”

  
Marten tried not to let his grin take over his whole face. “What about you?” Marten asked, “You must have something you really enjoy.”

  
“Justice,” Lance replied, a determined look taking over his face, “Not just the letter of the law, but the  _spirit_. Doing the right thing and protecting people. There's a reason I joined up with law enforcement.”

  
“You're right,” Marten said softly, “I don't get to see that a lot either.”

  
They shared a smile and Marten realised that any awkwardness that had been present initially had completely dissipated.

  
“Do you want to finish that before you forget?” Lance asked, gesturing at Marten's arm with the hand that wasn't holding his drink.

  
Marten made to start writing again, but paused before the pen met his arm. “You don't mind? I'm not going to be very good conversation when I get into it,” he warned.

  
“Go for it,” Lance said, “If you don't mind me watching.”

  
Marten bent back over his arm and was quickly lost in a world of calculations and notes. He occasionally noticed Lance heading back to the bar in his peripheral vision and was grateful that his glass was always full when he reached for it, but otherwise he was dead to the world.

  
\--------------------

  
“Don't think this will excuse you from TSE's sixtieth anniversary party next week.”

  
Mike started out of his doze at the sharp voice. His ribs gave a twinge at the sudden movement. Thengold was stood at the foot of his hospital bed with her arms crossed over a dress with a neckline that Mike had to guiltily force his eyes away from.

  
“I'm not part of the company anymore,” Mike pointed out.

  
“You were part of the company when the invitations were handed out,” Thengold said, “We haven't started a policy of removing ex-employees from the list. We'd like you to be there even if we aren't paying you.”

  
“I'll see if I can still make it,” Mike promised, hastily trying to remember where he'd chucked the invite in his messy flat.

  
“See that you do.”

  
Mike couldn't stand the silence. “Are you going somewhere nice?” he hazarded.

  
“Work, unfortunately,” Thengold replied, “That tar monster of yours wasn't the only one to make off with jewels today. The value of anything sparkly has sky-rocketed and, as such, the rich will be bedecking themselves as heavily as possible to show they aren't afraid. And scum will be trying to take advantage of that.”

  
“How did you hear about the fight?” Mike asked.

  
“The same way I knew you were in hospital,” Thengold said, a slight smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, “I have excellent sources, Mr Rayner, and I'm smart enough not to tell an employee of Precinct One what they are.”

  
Thengold looked uncertain for a moment, it was an expression Mike had never seen on her face before. She moved forward and dropped a letter into Mike's lap.

  
“You're going to need to be more careful,” Thengold said, “You're going to have to keep on top of the press at any rate.”

  
“I'll try,” Mike said.

  
“You  _will_ , or you'll fail. I didn't train any of my employees to merely  _try_ ,” Thengold said. She moved again, this time heading for the door, “Goodbye Mr Rayner, I'll see you at the anniversary party.”

  
Mike shook his head to clear it, already unused to Thengold's brusque attitude. Curious, he opened the envelope and found a hard copy printout of a newspaper page. The date was for tomorrow.

  
“Bugger,” Mike muttered. The article detailed the entire fight between the Task Force and Tarpit and even had a picture to go with it. They'd been relying on secrecy so far and this was the cat out of the bag.

  
Another scrap of paper fell out of the envelope, this was covered in Thengold's broad cursive.

  
 _This is already on print, next time stop it before it happens. Your police friends should be able to help there._

  
Michael heard the rest of the team well before he saw them. It still amazed him how stealthy they'd managed to be on the job.

  
Mike stuffed the article and note back into the envelope then shoved it all under his pillow. It felt wrong to share it with the rest of the Task Force for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint.

  
Jim was the first to put his head around the door, usual bright smile in place. Michael couldn't recall what the visiting hours were for St Ninian's, but he was pretty sure they were over by now.

  
“Hey, how're you holding up?” Jim asked, coming into the room bearing a pineapple.

  
“As well as can be expected,” Michael replied, shifting further up the bed into a sitting position, “I don't think you're supposed to be here.”

  
“We're working with Precinct One now,” Simon said, following Jim into the room, “We can go wherever the hell we want.”

  
Michael hadn't considered the possibilities that could be open now he owned a badge from one of the highest government organisations within the twin cities. Simon, having been in law enforcement previously and therefore having had reason to be allowed into restricted areas, would be a little more used to the idea of using such a thing.

  
Randall trailed in after Simon, holding a much more traditional bunch of grapes.

  
“Thank you, again,” Randall said quietly, “I owe you my life. We  _all_  owe you our lives.”

  
“Hey, it's what we do,” Mike said, “There's gotta be someone willing to take the fall to protect others.”

  
“Of course it's better if no one does,” Simon said, trying to get comfortable on the only chair in the room.

  
Jim interrupted with a snap of shuffling cards. “Game anyone?”

  
\--------------------

  
The outside air was cold and sharp and Lance found himself pulling his coat tighter. Marten shivered and tucked his hands into his pockets.

  
“Where are you heading?” Marten asked.

  
“Down by Tollsbridge,” Lance said, “You?”

  
“Over Fernsbourgh way,” Marten replied.

  
“I'll see you to the end of the Walk then?” Lance said and Marten nodded.

  
The sun had set some time ago, but the city streets were still lit brightly enough to see by. The same couldn't be said for any of the alleys they passed, however, they were both on main roads until they hit the end of the Walk, so it didn't matter for now.

  
“I'll get started on those ideas tomorrow,” Marten said, “And considering the rest of our equipment's on mending only right now, Jim will probably help without much fuss.”

  
“Don't put off the mending either,” Lance said, “I'd rather not have to go into the field with untested  _and_  broken equipment.”

  
Marten opened his mouth to reply – probably something scathing to Lance's lack of faith in the R&D guys – but was cut off by a piercing shriek rending the cool night air.

  
Lance didn't stop to think. He checked that his gun was still in the back of his waistband and ran toward the noise, pulling out his Task Force badge. By the sounds of the footsteps behind him, Marten was following. Good, Lance wasn't sure how he would've handled a member of the Task Force shirking such an obvious duty, but it wouldn't have been pleasant.

  
Rounding a corner, Lance came face to face with the victim and her muggers. The Stone Brothers, Lance had run into this group before.

  
“Police! Freeze!” Lance snapped, holding up his badge.

  
The leader, Jonathan, didn't stop to think, instead he flung the knife he'd been threatening the woman with at Lance in a fluid movement. It was a clumsy throw and telegraphed enough that Lance could sidestep it easily enough.

  
“Get her out,” Lance ordered to Marten, before changing forward.

  
\--------------------

  
 _Get her out? How?_  Marten thought wildly. He had no weapons, no defence, nothing. And Lance expected him to jump into a fire fight?

  
It was completely different to the battle they'd had earlier in the day in full gear. Marten was horribly aware of his own mortality as he sidled around the fight toward the woman.

  
She was quite striking, even with the bruise starting to show on her bare shoulder. By the blood on her hands and the scratches Marten had noticed on the muggers she'd obviously tried fighting back. Not only that, but she was barefoot and there had only been one shoe at the entrance of the alley, so she'd likely ran and only been cornered just before Marten and Lance had arrived.

  
Marten risked a glance at the fight, just long enough to note that Lance was still standing and none of the three muggers were paying Marten or their victim any attention.

  
“Come on,” Marten hissed, grabbing her arm and trying to pull her out of the alley.

  
The woman wrenched out of his grip before Marten even saw her move. “Stop gawping,” she snapped at him, “Tell your friend if he breaks that necklace they have then he's in more trouble than even Precinct One can pay for. Aren't you listening? I said the corner of Twelfth and Morningside!”

  
“You're... what?” Marten stammered. Then he realised she had aimed the latter half of her tirade at the phone in her hand. Marten raised his voice, “I have to get you out, er, miss.”

  
“And I need to get that necklace back,” the woman said, still cradling her phone to her ear,  _“Twelfth and Morningside._  Are you going to help your friend or –  _look out!”_

  
Years of working in a lab alongside Jim had given Marten bloody good reflexes – especially when faced with words like  _'look out'_  – yet, he nearly wasn't fast enough to avoid a vicious punch from one of the muggers.

  
Marten turned to face his opponent fully. The man was nearly half a foot taller than Marten, with shoulders twice as broad. A sweeping tattoo of flames ran down the man's arms, finishing in smoke-blackened fists.

  
Everything Lance had tried to pound into his head had vanished. Every trick Simon had shown him, every piece of advice Michael had offered, all of it gone. Marten realised he had no more concept of fighting than Jim had of moderation. He backed away, desperately wishing he had the weather wand for protection.

  
The man drew back his fist again, but before he could throw another punch at Marten there was a blur of red and the blow Marten had been waiting for never came. For a split-second he wondered if the Flash had appeared to save them.

  
But there wasn't any superhero from days gone by. Instead, the woman had driven her fist into the man's solar-plexus and driven the wind out of him. The man slumped to his knees, gasping for air, and she jabbed him in the neck. The mugger went down.

  
“Oh,” was all Marten could say stupidly.

  
\--------------------

  
Lance had gotten one of the Brothers pinned against the brick alley wall when backup arrived. Not police though, instead a handful of men Lance vaguely recognised swarmed the muggers. One of them nearly grabbed Marten too, until the woman ordered him sharply to drop 'the poor boy'.

  
“I thought I'd seen you before,” Lance realised, “You're head of that security company. TES or something.”

  
The woman – Thengold – looked bemused. “TSE, Mr Allen,” she acknowledged with a nod, “Are you sure you don't want to accept my offer? I know many clients who would pay handsomely to be protected by one of Precinct One's best. Not to mention someone so famous as I'm sure we'll see in tomorrow's news.”

  
Lance grimaced. “No thanks.”

  
“Have it your way,” Thengold shrugged. She plucked a heavy, jewelled necklace from the pocket of Jonathan, “I've got what I wanted. We'll handle the men, gentlemen, if you'd like to be off.”

  
“I'll radio in for a pickup wagon,” Lance said.

  
“I've already done that,” Thengold said, “But if you want to check, be my guest. We value honesty and strong ties with the local police at TSE.”

  
Lance switched his communicator to the police band. The legality of him still having direct access was a bit shaky, given that he wasn't a member of the force any longer, but then Precinct One trumped local law in many places and he wasn't about to give up a weapon.

  
A quick chat with Officer Brandon showed that Thengold had been telling the truth. Lance gave her a nod and moved away from her and her employees.

  
Marten was standing alone at the opening of the alley. Lance went over to him, angling himself to be able to keep an eye on Thengold's lot; he wouldn't put brutality past some of them.

  
“Are you alright?” Marten asked, sounding far more worried than he should.

  
“Fine. There were only two and one of them had already been pepper-sprayed,” Lance replied. He took a closer look at Marten, “Are  _you_  alright?”

  
“Fine,” Marten said, with a white face and a fine tremor running through his hands.

  
“Marten...” Lance had to remind himself that even though they'd faced down a living pile of tar this very afternoon, Marten was still a new recruit, “Deep breaths. We're here. We're alive. Concentrate on your breathing.”

  
“I froze up,” Marten said quietly.

  
“It happens,” Lance replied, “In the force we'd never send a rookie off alone or with only other rookies. People freeze up in a fight and the only way to get over that's to train hard and get experience.”

  
Marten actually shuddered. Lance put his hands on Marten's shoulders and ducked his head down to look at his face.

  
“Breathe through it, that's the adrenalin getting to you,” Lance said gently, “You did well.”

  
“You weren't watching,” Marten snorted.

  
“You're in one piece, that's good enough for me.”

  
Marten gave a wet huff, but managed a weak smile. “I take it I'm still on the team then?”

  
“Do you think I'm going to let Jefferys be the only one doing R&D for us?” Lance snorted. Marten relaxed a little further.

  
Sirens indicated that the police were getting near. Lance gave Thengold and her employees one last nod, before leading Marten away from the alley. Brandon could rage all he wanted about suspects and witnesses, but Lance wanted to let Marten's adrenalin run down first and questioning wasn't going to help that. If they wanted to get answers, Lance could give them everything they needed.

  
“Are you part of the Perpetuate?” Marten asked, once they were a couple of blocks away and his breathing had steadied out to normal.

  
“No,” Lance replied.

  
“Good,” Marten said, “Good. Because I'm going to kiss you now.”

  
There was plenty of time between him saying that and him cupping Lance's face and leaning forward, but Lance didn't move. Warm, dry lips pressed against Lance's mouth and Marten's body followed suit, leaning against Lance's own.

  
Lance hesitated, then wrapped his arms around Marten and pulled him closer.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Lance's alarm sounded and he slapped it off with a well practised move. He sat up groggily and noted that the other side of the bed was empty. A shame, but not completely unexpected. Lance pulled on some underwear and made his way into the kitchen.

  
To his surprise, Marten was there, drinking a cup of coffee. Marten looked like he'd been up for hours and had taken a shower too. Unfair that he looked quite so handsome there, while Lance was unshaven and his hair was sticking up on end.

  
“You sleep like the dead,” Marten said, “I wasn't expecting that, if I'm honest.”

  
“So I'm not a morning person,” Lance said gruffly, he gestured at the kettle, “Enough for me in there?”

  
Marten nodded and Lance prepared himself a mug, waving off Marten's attempts to help. He'd seen the tar that Jim drank, R&D guys tended to like their coffee strong enough to stand the spoon in. Even if his bleary morning coffee usually ended up not quite right, it was still better than trusting someone from R&D to do it.

  
“You've got a nice place,” Marten said, “Spacious. I didn't really appreciate it last night, but you've got a great view too.”

  
And the mention of last night reminded Lance why he was talking to his co-worker in his kitchen while wearing just his underwear.

  
“Last night,” Lance said. Marten tensed up, but let Lance finish, “Was that a one-time thing?”

  
“I'm...” Marten squared his shoulders determinedly and met Lance's gaze, “I'd like a relationship. With you. I like you and I think we could make this work.”

  
Lance tapped his fingers on the side of his mug, as all the reasons it would be a terrible idea ran through his head. “I can be stubborn,” he finally said.

  
“I once spent three solid days on a tricky firing mechanism,” Marten said.

  
“It could cause some problems with the Task Force,” Lance said.

  
Not to mention draw attention from the Perpetuate, a group attempting to ensure the continuation of the human race by seeking to end relationships that had no chance of producing offspring. Lance had had to break up their mobs before, it was never pretty.

  
“Only if we let it,” Marten said, “And I'm not going to.”

  
“Relationships... aren't exactly my forte,” Lance admitted.

  
“Then we'll take things slow,” Marten said, “Lance, you could give me a hundred reasons why this is all going to hell and I'm still going to want to try it.”

  
Lance took a long drink to put off his reply for a few moments. “If you're sure...”

  
“Absolutely,” Marten said.

  
“Because you're quite a looker,” Lance said, “And I don't want you settling for me when you can get someone better looking and less of a loose-cannon.”

  
“I think you're underestimating your own appeal,” Marten said with a smile, “So that's a yes then?”

  
“...yes,” Lance said, “Yes, I'd like to try a relationship with you.”

  
Marten's smile widened. “Brilliant.”

  
\--------------------

  
Jim was the only other person there when Marten and Lance arrived at work. Marten set up at his lab table and tried to ignore the knowing grin on Jim's face opposite him.

  
“Someone got lucky last night,” Jim said in a sing-song voice.

  
“Quiet,” Marten warned.

  
“It's about time,” Jim carried on regardless, “Any longer and I would've had to chuck you in a pleasure house to save your libido.”

  
“Shut up,” Marten hissed.

  
“It was  _dying_ ,” James said dramatically, “Then finally,  _finally_ , someone came to sweep you off your feet and get you laid.”

  
“I'll have you know I did some of the sweeping,” Marten muttered, then, in the hopes of getting Jim to switch topics he added louder, “Can we focus on the equipment? I came up with several ideas yesterday.”

  
He did, but not as far as Marten had hoped for.

  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jim said, “ _You_  propositioned  _him_? I mean, I know you did the asking with the drinks and all, but  _you_  acted on behalf of your under-developed libido?”

  
“Why do you...” Marten put his head in his hands and groaned, “You made a bet, didn't you?”

  
“Just a little one,” Jim said, completely unabashed.

  
“How much?” Marten asked. If he could ignore that it was a bet about him he'd be fine. Jim had made loads of bets over the years and Marten usually found out in one way or another.

  
“Well, I've got twenty from Randall and Mike. They thought you wouldn't do anything or had already been doing something, respectively,” Jim said, “But I've lost a tenner to Simon. I thought you wouldn't have the balls to be the proposition _er_  and he thought the same about Lance.”

  
The whole ignoring thing wasn't going all that well.

  
“Why do I put up with you?” Marten wondered out loud.

  
“Because you need someone witty, charming, and handsome for everything you can't be,” Jim said with a grin.

  
Simon arrived with a handful of reports and a holographic display of today's newspaper. He shoved all of it at Lance, before making his way over to Jim with a cocky smirk. Marten decided he didn't want to watch the payoff of the bet and left them to it, instead going over to check the newspaper.

  
“' _The Renegades_ '?” Marten read out, frowning at the bright picture of all six Task Force members under the bold headline, “' _Armed with weapons of the long-since deceased Flash's enemies, are these people truly the heroes they want us to believe they are? While none can deny the actions of the Renegades during the fiasco at the Links, the fact that they have chosen criminals' weaponry doesn't invite confidence in their motives. Frederico Lane has more on page 4..._ ' Wh- what?  _Renegades_?”

  
“Precinct One need to get their act together,” Lance snarled, “They could've stopped this, it's only one reporter's photo and word. What happened to the element of surprise?”

  
Marten privately wondered if this was Precinct One's retaliation for Lance's rant yesterday, then dismissed the notion. Surely that was too petty for Precinct One.

  
Marten flicked forward to the later page and skim-read through the rest of the article. It was mostly neutral to positive, with occasional comments on how they could do better. Marten felt surprisingly pleased with it when he finished.

  
“Like the codenames?” Simon asked. Marten hoped he hadn't just caught sight of Simon tucking some money into his pocket.

  
“I take it you do,  _Mirror Monarch_ ,” Marten said. 'Top', 'Trixster', 'Heatstroke'. He supposed 'Weather Warlock' wasn't too bad, though certainly nothing he'd have picked out for himself.

  
Simon's smile widened. “We need codenames,” he said, “Right, Command Cold, sir?”

  
“Don't push it, Slaytor,” Lance warned.

  
“We need codenames,” Simon repeated, “And a group name couldn't hurt. One that's less of a mouthful than  _The Reverse-Flash Task Force_.”

  
“ _Renegades_  implies a disregard for the law,” Lance argued, “We work  _with_  the law.”

  
“You know I'm right about the codenames,” Simon shrugged easily, “And we'll have to make a statement.”

  
Lance sighed, but didn't disagree.

  
It was only when Simon and Lance had moved on to practise with their weapons some more and Marten was heavily engrossed in wiring together a voice-activated cold blast that he remembered the newspaper had only used 'Cold' for Lance's Renegade name.

  
\--------------------

  
A statement made by Mirror Monarch and the Top of the 'Renegades' dated 23/8/2468:  
“ _The Renegades will be serving the city to protect it from the crime that the police force doesn't have the equipment and training to cope with. Regarding the accusations that the Renegades will bring more super-criminals out of the woodwork, we would ask people to remember that Professor Zoom has been a threat for many years before the Renegades existed._ ”

  
\--------------------

  
Unfortunately the second big missive Simon received from Precinct One a week later was much less interesting than the previous mission briefing. Simon dumped the pile of papers on the desk and snagged a copy to flick through while he was waiting for the others to arrive. Blah, blah, security issues, blah, blah; he'd seen all this before. Being a cop had required him to sign several of these a year.

  
Randall was next in the room. Judging by the jackets Simon had seen in the coat cupboard Lance and Marten were in, though probably in the training rooms downstairs.

  
“Is that another mission?” Randall asked, picking up one of the copies to leaf through it.

  
“Afraid not,” Simon said, “It's the security and background check.”

  
“What exactly does that check entail?” Randall sounded a little nervous about it.

  
“Don't worry,” Simon replied, “It's just your usual law enforcement check. You know, to see if you've got any criminals in your bloodline.”

  
“Oh,  _that_  check,” Randall said, though he didn't look any happier about it.

  
“Hey, if you're that worried about it, you could get someone to look over it for you,” Simon said, “But, seriously, I've signed at least fifty of these and no harm's befallen me.”

  
Randall gave a weak smile, but didn't look up from the paper. The door opened again, letting in Jim, who was supporting Mike. Simon promptly forgot about the forms to go and welcome back Mike.

  
“Out already?” Simon said, giving Mike a careful shove.

  
“Couldn't spend another day in there,” Mike replied with a grin.

  
The conversation flowed freely as Jim guided them over to his lab bench and started telling the others what he'd been working on. When Simon glanced back to see why Randall hadn't come over too, he couldn't see him anywhere in the room. With a shrug, Simon let himself be drawn back into Jim's excited chatter about new communicators.

  
\--------------------

  
Deep within the building, in a windowless room, the past played on several projections, showing events from just over five hundred years ago. Nothing changed. Randall knew he needed to sleep, but he was  _so close_  to figuring out a way to avoid this. He was good at this job and he was going to help people.

  
He couldn't if they found out about his ancestor from the twenty-first century.

  
Randall had checked it several times, both before and after he'd gotten involved with the Task Force. Rory Tork, tried and convicted after Iris Allen stuck her nose in where it didn't belong. Someone else had originally taken the fall and if things could just be made to  _stay_  like that, then Rory Tork wouldn't have ever received a criminal record and Randall wouldn't be thrown off the Task Force when Precinct One found out.

  
If only he could find a  _reason_  to go back in time and smooth it over...

  
An odd flicker on a single projection caught Randall's attention. He frowned as the images played out, differently to how he remembered seeing it last time and differently to the others surrounding it. Randall gave himself a pinch to check he was still awake and replayed it.

  
The giant mirror shattered and people, no,  _things_  emerged and spread out. One faded into the Mirror Master. Another slid inside Iris Allen's body. Fast-forwarding days later, the Flash got confused and desperate and killed Simon.

  
The question of why Simon was even there didn't cross Randall's mind.

  
 _This_  could be the chance Randall was looking for. He tuned it back to the start of the incident and recorded it onto a separate projector that wasn't linked to the past.

  
“Have you been here all night?”

  
Randall jumped and knocked the screen projectors off the table. Simon stood in the doorway, watching Randall with concern clearly printed on his face.

  
This was Randall's chance.

  
History appeared to be changing. If Randall could keep the history he'd just seen active, then the Renegades would have the perfect opportunity to go back in time and he could fix the blot on his record.

  
“There's something you should see,” Randall said, retrieving the recorded-on projector and pulling up the film of the Flash killing Simon.

  
Simon watched over it, his mouth tightening and the colour leaving his face. His eyes were rooted to the recording, which gave Randall the chance to pick up a powered down projector and judge its weight.

  
Randall didn't like what he was considering doing, but he couldn't be sure that history would stay still long enough for the events he saw to play out. If he was successful then there would have been no need for him to do what he was considering doing and everything would be back the way it was, with Randall's family history cleaner.

  
They had Barry Allen's DNA on file. If it came down to it, there existed technology able to simulate the Flash's DNA using a direct descendant's, and why else was Lance on the team?

  
Randall lifted up the projector in his hand and, feeling ill, swung forward at Simon.

  
\--------------------

  
“So what d'you think?” Jim asked, as Lance slid on the frames, “There's even a communicator in there too, one of the special ones Precinct One gave us to talk through time.”

  
The lenses filled in and Lance had to take a few moments to adjust to the rapid display of information. When he didn't move the labels stopped appearing, leaving only a few notes on what the glasses deemed most important objects in the scene he was looking at.

  
“Did you file yourself in the database as 'witty, charming, handsome, and single'?” Lance said in disbelief.

  
“Hey, if it's true,” Jim said, grinning, “So they're working. Awesome. Try looking around a bit more.”

  
Lance turned slowly, letting the AI flag up objects of interest. Its recognition was excellent, though Lance was still surprised that it worked after what Jim had put it through to form the shades.

  
“You can move faster,” Jim said, “They can handle it.”

  
“Not sure I can,” Lance muttered, “You got a full set yet?”

  
“Even with Precinct One's resources, creating enough tantalum-berkelium alloy for the lenses is a pain,” Jim replied, “I've made Marten a pair – he's off testing them now – but Simon and Randall will have to wait. Depending on Marten's analysis of Michael's goggles, we might be able to fix him up the same HUD without needing a full amount of alloy in the lenses.”

  
“Not bad,” Lance decided. He turned his head quicker and was pleased to see the recognition kept up, “It'll take some getting used to.”

  
“No worse than the rest of the gimmicks,” Jim said.

  
“Themes, not gimmicks,” Lance said with a frown.

  
“I'm the one building them, I can call them whatever the hell I want,” Jim said flippantly.

  
Lance opened his mouth to argue the point, but the lab door was flung open and Randall ran in. He was wide-eyed and was clutching a projector so tightly his knuckles were white and Lance began to fear for the projector.

  
“What's wrong?” Lance snapped out. In his experience it was never a good thing when an officer looked like that.

  
“It's – there's – you've – Simon –” Randall stumbled.

  
“What's happened to Simon?” Lance demanded, stamping down on his building panic. He automatically reached for his pistol before remembering it was locked in his storage locker on level one. Lance grabbed the cold-gun off the lab bench and started for his coat by the door.

  
Randall grabbed Lance's arm to stop him. “It's – just watch,” he said, putting the projector down on the bench and flicking it on.

  
Lance watched the play-back and couldn't muster any emotion through the numbness that filled him. The Flash snapped Simon's neck. Lance knew enough of his history, Flash had snapped Professor Zoom's neck before, so the incident wasn't without precedence.

  
The play-back hit the end and restarted. Jim reached forward and switched it off. There was a long silence as both Lance and Jim tried to process what they'd just seen.

  
“This is... this is the sort of thing the Task Force was made to prevent,” Randall said, looking from one to the other, “Isn't it?”

  
“Where is Simon now?” Lance asked. Locate the potential victim.

  
“I – he saw it,” Randall replied, “He got one of the time-platforms and –”

  
“– and it leads to this,” Jim finished, running his fingers over the unlit projector nervously.

  
“When does this happen?” Lance asked. Determine the time of the hit.

  
“The twentieth of September, 2010,” Randall said, “Aren't we going to stop it?”

  
“We will,” Lance said, “And we'll follow protocol. I'll take the case to Precinct One and we'll prepare for departure tomorrow morning.”

  
“Simon wouldn't follow protocol if his friends were in danger,” Jim said, folding his arms and scowling at Lance, “He'd do what he could to help them as fast as he can.”

  
“And maybe if Simon  _had_  followed protocol for  _once_  in his  _life_ , he'd still be alive,” Lance snapped. He regretted it immediately as Jim looked like he'd been punched.

  
“Have fun programming the time-platforms without me,” Jim said sharply, “I'm going to save my friend  _myself_.”

  
“Jim...” Lance wasn't used to being the one to smooth things over, that's what Simon was for.

  
“One night's sleep isn't going to hurt,” Randall said, stepping in front of Jim and blocking the door, “Time passing now isn't going to affect the past. Staying together is going to keep any more of us from being killed unnecessarily.”

  
Jim's shoulder slumped. “I know,” he said quietly, “It's just...”

  
“Contact Moore and Rayner,” Lance said, “I'll go to Precinct One and get everything cleared. Dennison, you're with me. Bring that recording.”

  
Randall picked up the projector and waited. Jim turned back to his lab bench and pulled up his pair of HUD sunglasses. Lance rested a hand on Jim's shoulder.

  
“We can do this,” Lance said, trying to put the determination he didn't feel into his voice.

  
“Dibs on being the first to tell Simon he's an idiot when we fix things,” Jim said with a weak smile.

  
Lance gave his shoulder and squeeze then left the room with Randall. It would be alright. It  _would_  be alright.

  
 _It would be alright_.

  
For some reason Lance was having trouble believing that.

  
\--------------------

  
The next day was a blur of lessons, surprises, and disappointments. It was all the Task Force could do to keep up with the developments and fights.

  
\--------------------

  
Then, just like that, it was over.

  
\--------------------

  
Lance's hands started to shake as he opened the file on the desk in front of him.  _No_. Now was not a good time to break down. It was just like any other report. Just ignore that the victim was a close friend and the murderer was a co-worker.

  
Just keep the calm of the past day. It was just another report like any other. Lance knew routine well and this was just routine.

  
The words ' _Simon Slaytor_ ' stood in stark bold letters along with ' _Randall Denison_ '. They fell out of focus as Lance's eyes blurred with tears, but the words were stamped in his mind as clear as day.

  
“ _Fuck_.”

  
Lance shoved the file onto the floor and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. It was too much on top of the day he'd already had.

  
An unsympathetic boss and an actively hostile ancestor. The other members of the Task Force needing kept an eye on because of their injuries, lack of field experience causing trouble, or outright treachery. Lance had been holding more than himself together for hours and he was tired of it.

  
Lance got up and grabbed his coat. He would do the report tomorrow when he had his head on straight. Tonight he was drinking to an old friend.

  
\--------------------

  
“We thought we'd find you in here,” said Jim.

  
Lance looked up to see Jim drop into the seat opposite him. Michael took the seat on his left while Marten slid into the booth beside Lance.

  
“G'way,” Lance mumbled into his drink.

  
“He was our friend too,” Jim said, “Just because we didn't know him as well as you did doesn't mean we don't miss him.”

  
“Always had a nice word and a smile,” Marten said softly, raising his drink.

  
“Best of all of us,” Michael said, clinking his glass with Marten's.

  
“A good man,” Jim said, raising his drink.

  
Lance stared at them before slowly raising his own glass. “A good friend.”

  
“Did he ever tell you about the time he set half of our old lab on fire?” Jim asked.

  
Lance shook his head and Michael leaned forward to hear better.

  
“It must've been about two years ago now,” Jim started, “We'd just gotten an unusual poison that half the department was fighting for the chance to be the one to analyse it...”

  
Jim was getting into his telling when Lance felt a hand slip into his own under the table. He glanced over at Marten, who was looking back at him.

  
“We're here for you,” Marten said, “ _I'm_  here for you.”

  
Lance was finding it very hard to swallow and his eyes were burning. Marten didn't let go, even when Lance's grip must've been starting to get quite painful.

  
“...and then  _I'm_  running about, trying to stop the fire before it reaches the old paper records and Jo's trying to stop the sprinklers before they ruin all our  _current_  work. Meanwhile, Simon's on his  _third_  fire extinguisher...”

  
\--------------------

  
A statement made by the 'Renegades' dated 30/8/2468:  
“ _Though we have lost two members, the remaining Renegades will be continuing our work to keep the city safe from super-criminal threats. We will not be taking on any new members at this current time._ ”


End file.
